


Love On the Prairies

by gala_apples



Category: Eleven Little Roosters (Web Series), Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Minor Violence, Seasonal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9840737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Barbara doesn’t know much about Agent Knuckle, but she’s sure she hates her. Unless she tolerates her. Unless she likes her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm Manitoban, born and raised, and as soon as ELR came out I knew I had to write a Canadian Smut Fic. I know Barbara's actually from Quebec, but for the purposes of this fic, she's somewhere more central.

**Spring**  
Barbara’s almost got this guy. He ran, trying to weasel out of his consequences like Stephen Harper weaseling out of financing the arts, but Barbara’s good at the chase. It’s why they call her Agent Moose; she’s as fast and as intimidating as an Alces Alces on the highway. Not to mention her body count. The amount of people who escape her are the amount of people who live after hitting a moose at a hundred kilometers an hour. In short, this schmuck doesn’t stand a chance.

Excepting, of course, torments from on high. Private Beck darts down a back lane and when she gets closer she turns the corner and follows. Barbara’s within hat tossing distance when she gets booted. It’s late April, so the snow is mostly melted and the ice thaws every morning and freezes every night. Her boot goes through the thin layer of yellowed ice and plunges into the several inches of frigid water underneath. Her boot instantly fills with water, ‘winterproof’ material be damned. Whenever companies make that claim, whether it’s tires or iPods or sleeping bags, it’s always the American definition of winter. 

Normally Barbara would just keep running. It’s not the first, tenth, or even hundredth time she’s gotten booted in the ugly dismal spring. Unfortunately for her underneath the pocket of icemelt is a pothole. She trips on the sudden uneven ground, and goes down. 

The target gets away. For about ten steps. Then another agent pops out from the other side of the lane. Barbara watches from her prone position as the agent -definitely from the Canadian Assassin’s League, she’s in the same uniform- tackles Private Beck and blows his brains out, blood making the standard leaf imprint on the ice.

The ground is gritty when Barbara puts her hand down to get up. No doubt the build up of road sand the sweepers haven’t come for yet. It’s probably already eating into her uniform, bleaching the proud bright colours. Spring is so gross.

Target eliminated, the agent is free to come over to Barbara. She’s as blond as Barbara is, and her uniform is still impeccable. Barbara might be feeling a bit of a grudge here. “Hello there, Agent Moose. I’m Agent Knuckles, don’tcha know. That was foolish of you, eh? Should have known how cracked up asphalt gets in the unmaintained areas after six months of winter.”

Barbara feels her CAL mandated smile start to thin at the edges. “Sorry, but did I ask you for your opinion?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Go clean up your mess,” Barbara directs. She doesn’t offer to help, and hopes Knuckle will take that for the dire affront it is.

 **Summer**  
Every day Barbara does her best to be a good agent of the Canadian Assassins League. That means being a proficient shot and maintaining stealth, of course. It also means honouring her Canadian heritage. She must use manners, before and after inconveniencing someone. She must happily pay taxes because safety nets and socialism aren’t bad words, simply the healthiest solution. She must advocate a three party political system, especially to other members of the ELR with weaker systems. Are there times when it’s personally aggravating to be top agent? Yes, for sure. But will she ever stop just because her duty is annoying that day? Of course not. And _that’s_ why Barbara’s in his nasty landscape, with a burden beside her.

Her assignment -their assignment, provisionally, but if she completes every task on her own and gets all the credit, all the better- is to find a specific dealer at this festival. It’s a needle in a haystack job. There are dozens of dealers here. It’s July, and there’s music playing, where better to sell drugs? 

Barbara knows she should be happy that the higher ups are at least certain of this festival. Lord knows there’s a festival every week for the scant twelve weeks of hot weather. The only thing worse than having to attend this event with Agent Knuckle would be having to attend multiple events. There’s only so long a woman can share a tent before she goes insane. Barbara is patently not happy. It’s meltingly hot, and the air clings like a wet rag. Which, honestly, Barbara could use in this moment. She hasn’t showered in three days. Not a concern in spring, fall, or winter. After all, washing your hair too often is damaging. But if it was any of those seasons, she wouldn’t be in this goddamn field, now would she?

“Do you know why we have to kill this particular dealer?” Knuckle interrupts her scan of the area to ask. It’s hard enough to focus on the teaming masses in stupid fucking long dresses and flower crowns without being distracted. Idiot.

“Did you read your briefing?” Barbara asks, heat making her curt.

“It wasn’t in my briefing. I thought you might know, you’ve been working longer.”

“Do me the favour of assuming the director’s told us what he wants us to know.” Ugh. _Idiot_.

“Okay there, calm down.”

If Barbara doesn’t find this schmuck soon she’s going to resort to dark measures, not the least of which is fucking murder Agent Knuckle. Her underboob is getting a rash from the amount of sweat build up. Her hair is at least three shades darker. She’s strongly empathising with all the morons here buying poison, which she never thought she would. Drugs are practically a necessity to get through this summer festival hell.

 **Fall**  
From an outsider perspective it looks like Barbara’s just a rich cottager, one of the thousands on the prairies who own a cabin and stay for months only to jump ship when it gets cold. It’s necessary; less than a third of the cottages at any given beach are winterproofed, and if lack of insulation doesn’t get you frozen pipes will. That doesn’t mean the few year round locals appreciate the vast shrink of population as literal fair weather friends fuck off. Barbara’s got all the signs of a beach goer shutting down; food for the weekend, a stack of blankets so that she doesn’t shiver herself to sleep, and plywood to cover the windows.

Well, almost all the signs. The last thing she needs to get is a two-four of Molson. She likes beer -who doesn’t- but even if she was straight edge in her personal life, professionally Barbara needs to be seen in the tiny LC. Year round locals notice when someone drives in in late September. Labour Day weekend is supposed to be it. Drawing the attention of buying beer is believe it or not much lesser attention than the gossip about the lone stranger who went right to her cabin without picking up some wheat juice to enjoy.

Once she’s got the task of small talk and purchase done, Barbara scopes out a perfect cottage to hunker down in. There’s a good chance she’ll have to stay for a day or two, and the weather conditions means she has to sleep somewhere with a roof. She ends up picking one painted purple with metal tulips stabbed into the lawn. It’s done for the winter, there’s no car or equipment out front, but it’s poorly shut down. The less noise she needs to make breaking in, the better. Tearing down plywood is not an option.

She’s only just got the door open, is still fumbling for the lightswitch, when the most bizarre thing happens. A form approaches in the twilight, resolving to Agent Knuckle as it gets close. There’s no reason for her to be here. The kill is expected to be simple, if time consuming. The CLA gave no hint they’d be sending a second agent.

Barbara’s eyes narrow. “Are you here to steal my job? Again?” She hasn’t seen Knuckle since the fucking festival, but three months later is too soon.

“Nope,” Knuckle says, an answer Barbara’s thoroughly not expecting.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I have a cottage, don’tcha know? I take it you’re here to kill someone. Is it Ed? I hope it’s Ed, he’s one of those rare isolationist Conservative party pricks.”

“Sean Mullins, actually.”

“Oh, he’s fishing. He won’t be back for days.”

“Huh,” Barbara states. She doesn’t look forward to tromping around in the woods, searching for him. What’s the likelihood of Knuckle giving her honest facts though? Sure she didn’t ever lie at the festival, but her butt was on the line too.

“The way I see it, you have two options. You can stomp around the woods, or you can leave your broken in cabin before Tammy gets back and murders you for breaking her screen door and come stay in my guest room.”

“Uh-”

“I’m making poutine for dinner tonight, farmer’s market cheese and potatoes from Chuck’s Truck on Highway 59.”

That does significantly raise the temptation. She shouldn’t be asking, but “what’s dessert?”

“Went berry picking the other day. Fresh enough that you still have to check for baby spiders.”

Barbara weighs that against stalking in the woods in the dark, weighs success on her latest job against relaxing for a few days. She’s been denied vacation leave the last three times she’s asked because celebrate-the-sun-when-we’ve-got-it-summer and desperately-cold-flee-to-South-America-winter are peak times, and she’s needed. “Got a third time’s a charm clincher?”

Knuckle eyes her, evidently trying to make up her mind about something. Her hesitation breaks with a step forward into Barbara’s personal space. Not stopping there, Knuckle quickly gets all up in her personal space, hands on her hips and a light kiss on her mouth.

“Interested?”

Not all CLA agents are bisexual. That’s not good diversity, and a Canadian agency demands proper diversity. But she’s pretty sure all ELR agents are, Gavin from MI6 the glaring headlight on the slut train. Despite reservations about Knuckle in general, Barbara is kinda gay, and Knuckle is hot. Dinner and scissoring and multiple orgasms sounds better than potentially getting eaten by a bear.

 **Winter**  
Barbara loses her breath when they kiss. Metaphorically, yes. They’ve been dating months now and she still gets a thrill every time she touches her sexy assassin girlfriend. Literally too, though. It’s a hazard of kissing outdoors. It’s minus twenty six, minus forty with windchill. Frostbite begins on exposed skin in less than ten minutes. More relevantly, all moisture is instantly wicked away. The wind is making her eyes water, but you’d never know it, and her nostrils are sticking shut. With her mouth occupied Barbara literally can’t breathe.

Hardly means she’s going to stop doing what she’s doing though. They’ve got no choice but to wait outside for the fuck they’re about to kill, his house has alarms up the wazoo. They’re only sheltered from the wind on one side, back lane windrow feet taller than their bodies. Barbara appreciates the construction, but she’d appreciate a south wind more. Things are the way they are however, and while stuck outside in the bitter cold, what better way to warm up slightly than creating friction with someone you like?

A few minutes in Barbara decides to take her mitts off. Garbage mitts are great for not losing a finger to frostbite, but they’re also impossible impediments to detailed work. The leather garbos catch a bit on the pockets of her parka, but eventually her hands are free. All the better to touch Elyse with. Barbara crowds in until Elyse’s back is against the high windrow. “You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Unzipping Elyse’s parka is one swift movement. The next action takes a couple of steps. First she unbuckles the shoulders of Elyse’s ski pants, so the fabric slouches. Then she worms a hand down the gap between downfill and body. It’s a bit of an awkward stretch, and Elyse shivers as the water resistant fabric of Barbara’s jacket presses against her pelvis, freezing cold from the conditions, but she doesn’t say stop. She doesn’t even stop kissing her.

Elyse throws her head back as Barbara’s fingers start to get the right places. Her wooly toque is already frozen to the craggy crystalized ice, so the movement slides the wool down past her forehead and eyebrows to partially cover her eyes. Barbara keeps her fingers pumping, maintains outer focus, but is on tenterhooks on the inside. They’ve never tried blindfolding before. How could they, when they’re both assassins and a move unseen is a threat unprepared for? If Elyse lets this continue, that means she trusts Barbara not to behead her or snap her neck. If Elyse’s professionally honed paranoia is low, that means she’s not thinking murderously, which means Barbara’s own survival instincts can relax.

They only touch for a minute longer. Elyse doesn’t get to climax. Barbara doesn’t even get touched. They have to stop, to chase down and behead the man who comes out of his rat den for his Slurpee fix. Elyse tosses her knife and when it only severs his spine Barbara finishes him off. But for that minute, Elyse keeps her toque down low, and Barbara is satisfied.


End file.
